glass of Petit Verdot, but it doesn’t do shit for me nutritionally speaking. Milk, in this case, does not ‘do a body good.’ It’s all about the red stuff. Can’t go without it.”
She was quiet for a little while, obviously noodling this. Or maybe she was just dizzy and trying to get her balance. He looked over and saw that, despite the blood-stained shirt, the wound had completely healed up. A scar was left in its place: an archipelago of puckered skin like pink leather bunched up together and clumsily stitched. That was interesting. He didn’t scar. But she did.
He was about to ask her about it, but she spoke first.
“How long you been a vampire?”
“Fifty years, give or take a few.”
“What were you like before? Did you have a family? A job?”
That was a fun question. Even in her asking it, shadows scurried away from the light of scrutiny—his mind searched for answers but they were fast to move, like rats or roaches. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this thing that I am, when you become it, it hollows you out. Like a spoon scraping the last curls of ice cream from the carton. Whoever I was before, I’m not that now. It replaces you. Remakes you in its image.”
“That’s sad.”
“Says you. Way I see it, human life is an endless line of dominoes toppling from one tragedy to the next. Not me, sweetheart. I just keep on going. Happy as a pig in the proverbial shit.”
Again with the scrunching of the nose. “So you have, like, superpowers?”
“No, no, no, this is give and take time. Enough about me. Time to talk about you . You suffer what should’ve been a life-and-soul-ending bite—instead, the wound heals up nice and tight. Well, not nice —that’s a pretty gnarly scar you got.”
“It is ugly, isn’t it?”
“Chicks dig scars.”
She just stared at him, grossed out.
“ So ,” he said, persisting. “The fuck is your deal?”
“I’m sick.”
“I know you’re sick. I can smell it on you like nicotine on wallpaper. What flavor of sickness are you, exactly?”
“Cancer,” she said. “Multiple myeloma.”
“Multiple what? C’mon, I’m not a doctor. Explain.”
Kayla sighed. “I have tumors inside my bones. In the bone marrow, actually. Makes it hard for my body to make new blood cells, I guess, which in turn makes me anemic, which in turn makes sure I get sick a lot. Colds, flus, whatever. Sometimes my hands and feet go numb. My back hurts a lot. It hurts in my actual bones, which, I gotta say, really freakin’ hurts. It’s like the way a cold wind makes a winter day a lot worse. Let’s see. What else? My kidneys might fail. My bones break easily. It’s a lot of fun.”
“Sounds like it’s the tits.” He took another inhale—the miasma of death hung about her like a perfume. “So, how long you have?”
“I’m living on borrowed time. They figured I wouldn’t make it long, six months, maybe a year. It’s been three years now.”
“So is that why everyone thought you were special? Because you’re the little cancer girl who wouldn’t die?”
She hesitated. “Not exactly.”
“So what is it?”
Kayla stayed quiet.
“Listen,” he said matter-of-factly, “I can make you tell me same way I made your Daddy stick that shotgun up under his chin. I’d much rather you tell me of your own free will because, frankly, I’m lazy.”
“It’s my blood.”
“Your blood.”
“It’s…”
“Go on, goddamnit. Spill.”
“It heals people. Well. Not of like, regular diseases or injuries or anything. But, like, it stops those bit by the zombies from turning.”
“So why’d everybody act all surprised that you healed up before?”
“Because I never got bit before now. So I guess they didn’t know. Guess they thought the miracle girl just got un-miracled.”
He cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure. And how’d you figure all this out? Bunch of half-zombies were sitting around, sipping on glasses of
She was quiet for a little while, obviously noodling this. Or maybe she was just dizzy and trying to get her balance. He looked over and saw that, despite the blood-stained shirt, the wound had completely healed up. A scar was left in its place: an archipelago of puckered skin like pink leather bunched up together and clumsily stitched. That was interesting. He didn’t scar. But she did.
He was about to ask her about it, but she spoke first.
“How long you been a vampire?”
“Fifty years, give or take a few.”
“What were you like before? Did you have a family? A job?”
That was a fun question. Even in her asking it, shadows scurried away from the light of scrutiny—his mind searched for answers but they were fast to move, like rats or roaches. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this thing that I am, when you become it, it hollows you out. Like a spoon scraping the last curls of ice cream from the carton. Whoever I was before, I’m not that now. It replaces you. Remakes you in its image.”
“That’s sad.”
“Says you. Way I see it, human life is an endless line of dominoes toppling from one tragedy to the next. Not me, sweetheart. I just keep on going. Happy as a pig in the proverbial shit.”
Again with the scrunching of the nose. “So you have, like, superpowers?”
“No, no, no, this is give and take time. Enough about me. Time to talk about you . You suffer what should’ve been a life-and-soul-ending bite—instead, the wound heals up nice and tight. Well, not nice —that’s a pretty gnarly scar you got.”
“It is ugly, isn’t it?”
“Chicks dig scars.”
She just stared at him, grossed out.
“ So ,” he said, persisting. “The fuck is your deal?”
“I’m sick.”
“I know you’re sick. I can smell it on you like nicotine on wallpaper. What flavor of sickness are you, exactly?”
“Cancer,” she said. “Multiple myeloma.”
“Multiple what? C’mon, I’m not a doctor. Explain.”
Kayla sighed. “I have tumors inside my bones. In the bone marrow, actually. Makes it hard for my body to make new blood cells, I guess, which in turn makes me anemic, which in turn makes sure I get sick a lot. Colds, flus, whatever. Sometimes my hands and feet go numb. My back hurts a lot. It hurts in my actual bones, which, I gotta say, really freakin’ hurts. It’s like the way a cold wind makes a winter day a lot worse. Let’s see. What else? My kidneys might fail. My bones break easily. It’s a lot of fun.”
“Sounds like it’s the tits.” He took another inhale—the miasma of death hung about her like a perfume. “So, how long you have?”
“I’m living on borrowed time. They figured I wouldn’t make it long, six months, maybe a year. It’s been three years now.”
“So is that why everyone thought you were special? Because you’re the little cancer girl who wouldn’t die?”
She hesitated. “Not exactly.”
“So what is it?”
Kayla stayed quiet.
“Listen,” he said matter-of-factly, “I can make you tell me same way I made your Daddy stick that shotgun up under his chin. I’d much rather you tell me of your own free will because, frankly, I’m lazy.”
“It’s my blood.”
“Your blood.”
“It’s…”
“Go on, goddamnit. Spill.”
“It heals people. Well. Not of like, regular diseases or injuries or anything. But, like, it stops those bit by the zombies from turning.”
“So why’d everybody act all surprised that you healed up before?”
“Because I never got bit before now. So I guess they didn’t know. Guess they thought the miracle girl just got un-miracled.”
He cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure. And how’d you figure all this out? Bunch of half-zombies were sitting around, sipping on glasses of
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